Chapter I

1851-1865

Men of all ages are apt to set up for themselves heroes. It is their instinct to worship exceptional force of character and to follow a leader; but as we survey the tempest of human suffering we are now more apt to wonder if there are any great men left in the world and think that perhaps, after all, we have made a mistake in putting on pedestals the heroes of the past; for tried in the light of the present day they would, perchance, not have proved heroes at all. The cynic may even sneer at this lovable trait in human nature and affect to place all men in a commonplace ratio, but then it is easier to be a cynic than a man of faith. Nevertheless, Humanity must have something to trust, to acclaim and admire, and so millions of all ages cling to their worship of the hero, even though he may wear top hat and trousers. There will always be great men amongst the mass of pygmies, though many say the age of hero-worship has gone--doubtless swamped in the scale of colossal events. Still, if the great men of the past were not as large as they seemed, the little men of to-day may be greater, in spite of the fact that the chief actors in the modern drama of life are nations and not individuals.

But what constitutes a great man will ever be the result of individual opinion. In Russia to-day millions, perhaps, think Lenin and Trotsky are demi-gods, whilst an equal number call them traitors and would prefer to see them hanged. To us, perhaps, the belief that Right will triumph over wrong, and the man who in simple faith gives up all that is sweet and pleasant to serve his country in the most fearful strife the world has ever seen, is the embodiment of heroism. There are tens of thousands of men who have done the same as Frederick Selous and none are less heroes than he; each and all of them are as much entitled to their pedestal of fame, although they may not have exhibited the mind that influences for years in many lands. They have all counted the cost and endured the sacrifice, and they do not talk about their inner thoughts. This, to our minds, is true heroism.

So in studying the life of one Englishman, great in the sense that everything he did was big, honourable, clever, and brave, we shall realize how character is formed in the iron mill of experience, how a man unhelped by wealth or social advantages and gifted only with exceptional talents in a line, mainly unprofitable in a worldly sense, came to win through the difficulties and dangers of a more than usually strenuous life and reach the haven of completed work. Selous was a type of Englishman of which we are justly proud. His very independence of character and impatience of restraint when once he knew a thing was right was perhaps his greatest asset. He knew what he wanted to do and did it even if it resulted, as it did on one occasion, in his personal unpopularity. It was this fearless striving towards the Light and constant love of what was beautiful in Nature, that forced him into Literature, so that others might see with his eyes the things that he thought were best. And thus he rose and became a type and an influence in our national life, and in time swayed the lives of others.

The Selous family were originally French Huguenots, who settled in Jersey after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Annoyance at being turned out of France caused Gideon Slous to omit the "e" from the surname, but later this was re-adopted by his son Frederick Lokes Selous, father of Frederick Courtenay. Of the character of his parents and uncles Edmund Selous kindly sends me the following notes:--

"... I can only say generally, that my father was a man of high
and varied talents and very high character, of French, or at any
rate, Jersey descent, and that he started with nothing in life,
and with only such education (beyond what he owed to his mother,
an uncommon woman, who probably did better for him) as an
ordinary private school had afforded, equipped himself with
French and Italian in perfection, entered the Stock Exchange at
an early age, had a successful career there, and rose to be
Chairman of its Committee. He was a fine whist and chess player
(more especially, or more notedly, the latter) and was reputed,
I believe, at one time, to be the best amateur player of the
clarionet. Music was his constant and greatest delight, but his
pen was also an instrument which (though he sought no public
beyond his friends) he often used very entertainingly. He was a
brilliant--often a witty--talker, with a distinction of manner,
more French- than English-seeming in its light debonairness, and
his individualities, traits, foibles, etc., were so many and
vivid, that to write either of him or of Dr. Johnson with
scanted pen, would be much the same thing. My two uncles, the
artist and dramatist, who lived next door, on each side of us,
would also require portraiture for anything beyond this bare
statement. Both were out-of-the-canvas-stepping personalities,
carrying with them atmosphere and aroma.

"My mother was an exceptionally thoughtful and broad-minded
woman--more advanced, on most subjects, than where they stand
now--a vivid and vital being, of great vivacity, gladness (that
never was levity) and conversational powers, with a gift for the
interchange of ideas (which is not, by any means, always the
same thing). She was also a poet, as her little volume of
collected pieces, 'Words without Music' (a modest title)
testifies, at least to myself. She had joyous 'L'Allegro'-like
country instincts, a deep inborn love of the beauties of nature
(which she sketched charmingly), and great feeling for, and
interest in both plant and animal _life_. I underline that word,
in its last connection, because killing was quite another thing
for her, and her whole soul shrank away from it. But of course,
as you know, what, in root and origin, may be the same, is often
differentiated in the sexes, and so inherited by each. It was, I
think, undoubtedly through our mother (though he did not,
personally, much resemble either parent) that my brother
inherited everything that made him distinctively himself. By
this I mean that though much and that the best--as, for
instance, his patriotism and love of truth--may have come to him
from both sides, and some from the other only, it was that one
that gave to it, and the whole, its original life-shaping turn.
The whole was included in the blood of the Bruces of
Clackmannan, representative, I believe, of the elder branch of
the family that gave Robert Bruce to the throne of Scotland, but
what exact position, in our family tree, is occupied by Bruce,
the Abyssinian explorer, I do not quite know. However, he must
have been some sort of ancestor of my brother, and Bruce, since
the intermingling, has been a family name, though not given to
any of us surviving infancy, owing to an idea which had arisen,
through several instances of such association, that it had
become unlucky. In this regard, it has been rather the
patronymic, which, from one war to another, has borne the
malevolent influence. None have come back, either wounded,
invalided or at all. All killed outright--but this by the way.
Had it not been for my mother, therefore, my brother, in all
probability, would either never, or not in any preponderating
degree, have felt the 'call of the wild,' for my father not only
never felt it, but never was able to comprehend the feeling.
There was, in fact, nothing at all in him of what was my
brother's life and being. He was, in the proper evolutionary
sense of the word, essentially a civilized man and a Londoner.
Sport was, for him, an unknown (and much disliked) quantity, and
though taking, in an air-tight-compartment sort of way, some
interest in insects, he had not much about him of the real
naturalist. Those feelings (imperishably summed up by Jack
London in the title of his masterpiece) which, coming out of a
remote past, beckon back the only supposedly or but half-made-up
civilized amongst us, from late into early conditions, were not,
as I say, his heritage; and this was equally (or even more) the
case with his brothers--my two uncles--and as far as I know or
have ever heard, all the precedent members of the family. I
believe, therefore, that by the intervention--merciful or
otherwise--of the Bruce, Sherborn, and Holgate families, between
them, my brother was saved, or debarred, from going either into
the Stock Exchange or one of the settled professions. Which kind
of phraseology best suits the conjuncture I know not, but I
think I know what my brother's own opinion would be, since it
put the particular circumstances of that event of his life, in
which, of all others, he would esteem himself most happy and
fortunate--I mean his death--upon a footing of certainty.

"I have alluded to my brother's independence of home (or, I
think, of any) influence. I look upon him as a salient
illustration of Darwin's finding that the force of heredity is
stronger, in the individual, than that of education and
surroundings. So far back as I can remember--at least with any
distinctness--he was always just himself, with a settled
determination that, in its calm, unobtrusive force (giving the
idea of inevitability) had in it something elemental. He may not
have lisped Africa (which was far from the family thoughts) but,
if not, he, at least, came so near to it, as to have made us all
almost remember that he did. He seems to have brought with him
into this world 'from afar,' a mind long made up as to the part
he should play in it, and his career was more than half run
before any circumstance admitted by him as deflective from its
true course, arose..."

Mrs. Jones (Ann Selous) also paints a pleasing picture of the early life of the family in their London house:--

"We lived in Gloucester Road, Regent's Park, in a house my
father built for himself. At that time there were no other
houses near, but all fields between his home and Primrose Hill,
some way off; but this superior state of things his children
never knew. Our uncles, my father's brothers, lived on either
side of us. My father was vice-Chairman of the Stock Exchange
for five years, and Chairman for three, until a very serious
illness obliged him to resign and give up everything in the way
of work. He was a fine chess player, his name is to be seen in
the games amongst those of the great players of the day. He was
also a very fine clarionet player, which instrument he taught
himself when very young, and I well remember his beautiful tone,
far beyond that of Lazarus, the chief professional player of the
day, who no doubt sacrificed tone to technique. Whenever there
was a speech to be made my father was equal to the occasion,
having great fluency and humour and real wit. He was a
delightful talker and his memory was a store-house of knowledge
and recollections that he could draw upon whenever required. He
was a very genial and admirable host, very high-spirited and
excitable. He could never forget the Revocation of the Edict of
Nantes, when the Huguenots, his forebears, were driven from
France. 'They turned us out! They turned us out!' he used to say
to my mother, a real thought of bitterness to him. His greatest
pleasure and relaxation was a walking-tour in Switzerland, a
land he specially loved. He had often been there with one or
other of his brothers, or with his great friend Baron Bramwell,
the famous judge. These trips must have been ideal, my father
and his brothers having in themselves everything that was
necessary to make them gifted in all the arts, and so
appreciative of nature and everything else, and with their
lively sense of humour and wide interests they were able to
extract the most from all they might chance upon in their
travels, those being the days before tourists flooded the
country and huge hotels swamped the more interesting inns. My
father loved the busy life of the City, and had no country
tastes such as farming or hunting, but he delighted in the life
by the river--in canoeing, specially--and in a farmer's country
home in the Isle of Wight, where, when we were children, we
spent the summers. He was a fine swimmer and would swim out with
one or other of us on his back. I well remember his energy,
mental and physical, were remarkable. The loss of sight seemed
only to affect his later years. His mind was clear and equal to
dealing with his affairs to the last. At a very advanced age he
had started tricycling and delighted in it. I think my father
and my brother Fred were very dissimilar in character, interests
and tastes. There was no 'call of the wild' in my father--nor, I
think, in my mother, except through her imagination. My father
left a few reminiscences which were never finished, as dictation
tired him--he was then over eighty and blind. They are full of
interesting memories which end unfortunately when he was still
very young."

"I was born," writes my father, "on the 9th of March, 1802.... I
was a precocious child, for I was told that I knew my letters at
about two years of age, and could read at three and a half and
recite on a table at about four. I perfectly recollect
declaiming the quarrel between Brutus and Cassius in
Shakespeare's 'Julius Caesar.' Also I remember the announcement
of the death of Nelson in October, 1805, and witnessing his
funeral procession in January, 1806.[1] I was perched on the
shoulders of a journeyman baker named Guesnel at the corner of
Poland Street, from whence I beheld the catafalque containing
the remains of the illustrious Nelson, the whole affair
resembling much the interment of the Duke of Wellington, which I
witnessed in 1852--forty-six years later. My brother Harry (the
artist, H. C. Selous), who was thirteen months younger than I,
remembers witnessing this spectacle too.... I can recollect
weeping bitterly at hearing the first news of our great
admiral's death, and the awe and wonder with which I looked upon
the ceremony of his interment.... I was sent to school at
Islington at the age of seven, and upon the master desiring me
to read from a book which he gave to me he expressed himself so
surprised at my reading that he told my mother he would not put
me into any of the reading classes of the upper boys, as I
should put them to shame. I was at that time so strong and so
hungry that I frequently carried some of the biggest boys round
the playground (which was a large one) for an extra slice of
bread and butter with which they repaid me. I was at school
about a twelve-month and then came under my mother's care for
instruction, and to her I owe more than I can possibly express
with regard to my early education. She taught me the French
language, Greek and Roman history, and the three R's--reading,
writing, and arithmetic. When I was ten years, I was sent to a
school called the Burlington school, where I improved my French,
became a tolerable Latin scholar, and gained a smattering of
mathematics. After being for two years at this academy, I was
recalled to home rule and education and never had any further
instruction from master or professor. At this time my brother
and myself were allowed to wander about the streets uncontrolled
and might have been considered as a sort of street Arabs, though
we always selected our associates carefully." (Later on my
father had to work very hard, very long hours, up till midnight
four days in the week, but it did him no harm, and he was very
strong and active. A great part of his time was occupied in
reading every variety of book he could get hold of, from which
he gained much general information, having an unusually good
memory. Plutarch's lives were his first admired works. Pope,
Addison and Johnson came next. He made the acquaintance of some
of the celebrated Italian singers and learnt to speak their
language fluently. All this part about the Italian singers is
very interesting, and many things connected with the theatre
likewise.)

"I also witnessed another performance which shocked me more than
anything I ever beheld, for I was then very young. It was in
1815 or 16, I think, I happened to be rather early one day in my
long walk to Great St. Helen's, which took me past St.
Sepulchre's and the broad opening to the narrow streets of the
Old Bailey. The sun was shining brightly across Newgate, and on
chancing to look towards Ludgate Hill I saw dangling to a beam
at the west side of Newgate five human beings suspended by the
neck. One of them was a woman, who with a feeling for symmetry
had been hung in the centre. All five had white night-caps drawn
over their faces to conceal the horrible convulsions of the
features. I don't know what their crimes had been, people were
hanged in those savage days for stealing a shilling, or even
cutting a stick from a plantation. The time appointed for
cutting down the bodies had nearly arrived, and the crowd had
diminished to an apathetic group principally engaged in cracking
nuts and jokes, and eating brandy balls all hot; but horror gave
speed to my steps and I soon left hideous Newgate behind me. I
recollect a great sensation caused by the execution of
Fauntleroy for forgery." Here end these notes by my father.

"I think I remember rightly that at fourteen my father was not
only making a livelihood for himself, but supporting his father
and mother. He was most charitable and had the kindest heart in
the world, and that high sense of honour which so distinguished
his son. I think that though these few extracts from his
reminiscences are not, perhaps, of importance, yet they throw
some light on my father's character, and indirectly it may be on
my brother's also, for certainly in strength of purpose, energy,
and will to succeed, also in vigorous health and constitution,
they were alike. They also had both a great facility for
learning languages. We were amused to read in a book on African
travel by, I think, a Portuguese, whose name for the moment I
forget, that he came across the great hunter (I forget if he put
it like that) Selous, 'somewhere' in Africa, who addressed him
in the French of the 'Boulevard des Italiens!' As I think this
traveller was supposed to have a lively imagination, we accepted
Fred's superior accent (after so many years of never speaking or
hearing French) with some grains of salt. But not very many
years ago at some international meeting to do with sport, at
Turin or Paris, Fred representing England, he made a speech in
French, on which he was much complimented, for accent, wit, and
fluency alike.[2]

"My mother, like my father, had a wonderful memory, and was a
great reader, from childhood, her home possessing a big library.
Scott was her great delight then, and indeed always, and poetry
was as nectar and ambrosia to her. She had great facility in
writing herself, very charmingly, both poetry and prose, all of
the fantastic and imaginative order, and she had quite a gift
for painting. Considering all the calls made on her time, of
home and family (social, likewise), which were never neglected,
it was wonderful that she could yet find time for all her
writing and painting. Her perseverance and industry in the arts
that she loved were really remarkable. We children greatly
benefited by her love of poetry and story, for she was a true
'raconteuse' and we drank in with delight the tales from the old
mythologies of romance and adventure. She would tell us of deeds
of 'derring-do' and all that was inspiring in the way of freedom
and love of country. Certainly with her, as with Sir Edward
Clarke, poetry was 'a never failing source of pleasure and
comfort' to the last. (As it was also with me.) In the last year
of her long life she could still repeat her poetic treasures
with the greatest fire and spirit. She had a vigorous and
original personality, with strong and decided views which she
would express with energy. Her hands were full of character,
strong yet most delicate, and much character in her features,
with a smile that lit up her face like a ray of sunshine. Her
maiden name was Sherborn--Ann Sherborn--(her mother's maiden
name, Holgate).... Her relations and ancestors were county
folk--gentlemen farmers some of them. The Sherborns of Bedfont
near Staines, held the great tythe, and her uncle was the
squire. None of the last generation married, the name has died
with them and may be seen only in the little Bedfont churchyard.

"My mother's uncle (her mother's brother), William Holgate, was
fond of searching out genealogies and he managed to trace the
Abyssinian Braces until it joined our Bruce family tree. There
were many original--and it may be eccentric--characters amongst
my mother's relations and forebears, and many interesting
stories that we loved to hear, about them. Her genealogical
tree interested us greatly, partly because the names were so
curious, as it went back to the early days of history, and
because of the stories connected with them, and also because if
not Bruce himself, his elder brother, David King of Scotland,
figured in it. Then there was Archbishop Holgate of York, who
was a great rogue (I looked up his life in the Minster precincts
when I was there) and hand and glove with Henry VIII in the
spoliation of the monasteries, yet he redeemed himself by the
establishment of Free Schools, which flourish in York to this
day.

"It may be that this spirit of romance and adventure that we
breathed in from our earliest years, had some influence on my
brother Fred, and fired his imagination; but why from the very
first there should have been the persistent desire like an 'idee
fixe' for Africa, I cannot tell, unless, indeed, it might be
something of 'Abyssinian' Bruce cropping up again. But as a
child he would have a waggon for a toy, to load and unload, and
for his school prize books he would always choose one on Africa.
This desire for the dark continent remained constant in him till
satisfied, and indeed to the last.

"My mother had quite an unusual interest in, and knowledge of,
natural history, and my father also made some fine collections
of butterflies, etc., which are still to be seen in my brother's
museum. My father's youngest brother, Angiolo--a man of the most
polished and courtly manners--was as dark as my father was fair.
Entirely educated by his mother, there was little in which he
did not excel. He had a beautiful voice and was a charming
singer, often to his own accompaniment on the guitar, and was a
well-known dramatist in his time, some of his plays being most
successful. How well I remember the first night of his 'True to
the Core,' when we all went across the river to the Surrey
Theatre and helped with our feet and umbrellas in the general
enthusiasm. He was a fine actor and dramatic reader, and a
charming artist. We have a perfect gem of his--Don Quixote,
sitting in his study--the colouring, the face and expression,
the painting, are perfect, and one feels that Don Quixote must
have looked just so. The haggard face and the wild look in the
eyes that are seeing visions. But it was unfortunate that my
uncle neglected this talent altogether. My uncle, Harry Selous,
was of course the artist, excelling chiefly, I think, in his
beautiful outlines of the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and his
'Metamorphoses of Ovid,' on which subjects he could draw on his
imagination for ever, it seemed. It is a thousand pities they
have never been produced. His illustrations of the Life of Bruce
and Hereward the Wake are fine, and The Prisoners of Calais and
Boadicea are well known. The latter most fine, I think. He would
paint the most charming landscapes with great rapidity, and his
chalk (coloured) and pencil sketches from his travels in
Switzerland are charming too, and endless numbers of them. He
painted some of the famous Coliseum panoramas, each in turn
being painted out by the next one, which always seemed very
dreadful. His original illustrations drawn on wood, were
exquisite, and it was cruel to see how they were spoilt in the
wood-cutting, but he valued his work so lightly that he did not
seem to mind much about it. My grandfather, Gideon Slous, had a
very great talent for painting, and was a fine colourist, quite
like an old master, and he painted some beautiful miniatures
also. He was a man of violent temper."

Frederick Courtenay Selous was born in the house in Regent's Park on December 31st, 1851. The other children of his parents were: Florence, "Locky," now Mrs. Hodges; Annie, married to Mr. R. F. Jones; Sybil, "Dei," married to Mr. C. A. Jones; Edmund, married to Fanny, daughter of Mrs. Maxwell (Miss Braddon). He is a well-known student of British bird-life and has published many interesting books on British Natural History.

Of the childhood of Frederick little more need be said. He was an active little fellow, never more happy than when playing with his wooden waggon and oxen or listening to his mother's stories of romance and adventure. At the age of nine he went to school at Bruce Castle, Tottenham, of which Arthur Hill was the headmaster, and there chiefly distinguished himself by being constantly in trouble. Later he went for a short time to a small school in Northamptonshire, kept by the Revd. Charles Darnell, whose daughter (Mrs. Frank Juckes) recalls one characteristic incident.

"One night my father on going round the dormitories to see that
all was in order, discovered Freddy Selous, lying flat on the
bare floor clothed only in his nightshirt. On being asked the
cause of this curious behaviour he replied, 'Well, you see, one
day I am going to be a hunter in Africa and I am just hardening
myself to sleep on the ground.'"

One day in 1914, I found Selous busy at his desk at Worplesdon. On being asked what was the nature of his work, he said he was writing an account of his school days for a boys' magazine. He did not seem to think it would be of wide interest, and so had written his early adventures in simple form merely for the perusal of boys and had changed his own name to that of "John Leroux."

"It was a damp and dismal winter's day towards the end of
January, 1861, on which the boys reassembled after their
Christmas holidays at a well-known school not far from London.
Nevertheless, despite the gloom and the chilliness of the
weather conditions outside the fine old mansion which had but
lately been converted into a school, there was plenty of life
and animation in the handsome oak-panelled banqueting hall
within, at one end of which a great log fire blazed cheerfully.
Generally speaking the boys seemed in excellent spirits, or at
any rate they made a brave show of being so to keep up
appearances, and the music of their laughter and of their fresh
young voices was good to hear. Here and there, however, a poor
little fellow stood apart, alone and friendless, and with eyes
full of tears. Such unfortunates were the new boys, all of them
youngsters of nine or ten, who had left their homes for the
first time, and whose souls were full of an unutterable misery,
after their recent partings from fond mothers and gentle
sisters. The youngest, and possibly the most home-sick of all
the new boys was standing by himself at some distance from the
fire, entirely oblivious of all that was going on around him,
for he was too miserable to be able to think of anything but the
home in which he had grown to boyhood and all the happiness,
which it seemed to his young soul, he could never know again
amidst his new surroundings.

"Now as it is this miserable little boy who is to be the hero of
this story, he merits, I think, some description. Though only
just nine years old he looked considerably more, for he was tall
for his age, and strongly built. He was very fair with a
delicate pink and white complexion, which many a lady might have
envied, whilst his eyes sometimes appeared to be grey and
sometimes blue. His features, if not very handsome or regular,
were good enough and never failed to give the impression of an
open and honest nature. Altogether he would have been considered
by most people a typical specimen of an English boy of
Anglo-Saxon blood. Yet, as a matter of fact, as in the case of
so many Englishmen, there was but little of the Saxon element in
his composition, for whilst his father came from the Isle of
Jersey, and was therefore of pure Norman descent, his forebears
on his mother's side were some of them Scotch and others from a
district in the north of England in which the Scandinavian
element is supposed to preponderate over the Saxon. But though
our hero bore a Norman-French name the idea that he was not a
pure-blooded Englishman had never occurred to him, for he knew
that his Jersey ancestors had been loyal subjects of the English
crown ever since, as a result of the battle of Hastings, Duke
William of Normandy became King of England.

"It was not long before the new boy's melancholy meditations
were rudely broken in upon by a handsome lad of about his own
size, though he was his senior by more than a year. 'Hullo,'
said young Jim Kennedy, looking roguishly into the sad, almost
tearful, eyes of the young Jerseyman, 'who gave you that collar?
Why, you look like Queen Elizabeth.'

"A fond mother had indeed bedecked her darling boy with a
beautiful collar of lace work several inches in breadth which
spread over his shoulders, but which he soon found it advisable
to discard as it made him the butt of every wit in the school.
But though the collar was suppressed, the name of Queen
Elizabeth, that august lady to whom Kennedy when first
addressing him had declared that his mother's fond gift had
given him a resemblance, stuck to him for many a long day.

"The laughing, jeering interrogatory, acted like a tonic on the
new boy, who though of a gentle, kindly disposition, possessed a
very hot temper. His soft grey eyes instantly grew dark with
anger as looking his questioner squarely in the face he answered
slowly, 'What is that to you, who gave me my collar?'

"'Hullo!' again said Jim Kennedy, 'you're a cocky new boy.
What's your name?'

"'My name is John Leroux,' said the young Jerseyman quietly and
proudly, for his father had taught him to be proud of his Norman
ancestry, and had instilled into his son his own firm belief
that the Normans were a superior people to the Saxons, than whom
he averred they had done more for the advancement of England to
its present great position, and for the spread of the empire of
Britain over half the world.

"Kennedy repeated the unfamiliar name two or three times, and
then with a derisive laugh said, 'Why, you're a Frenchy.' Now
although it was quite true that on his father's side John Leroux
was of Norman-French descent, for some reason difficult to
analyse, the suggestion that he was a Frenchman filled his young
heart with fury. His face grew scarlet and his fists clenched
involuntarily as he answered fiercely, 'How dare you call me a
Frenchy! I'm not a Frenchman, I'm an Englishman.'

"'No, you're not,' said Kennedy, 'you're a Frenchy, a
frog-eating Frenchy.' Without another word young Leroux, from
whose face all the colour had now gone, sprang at his tormentor,
and taking him unawares, struck him as hard a blow as he was
capable of inflicting full in the mouth. And then the fight
commenced.

"Fifty years ago manners were rougher and ruder in these islands
than they are to-day. Prize-fighting was a respected and
popular calling, and set fights between boys at school of all
ages were of constant occurrence.

"A ring was soon formed around the combatants and though the
majority of the onlookers resented what they called the
'coxiness' of the new boy and wanted to see him get a licking,
there were quite a number of young barbarians whose sympathies
were entirely with Leroux, for his pluck in engaging in a fight
on his first day at school made a strong appeal to them. The
boys were evenly matched, for though Kennedy was more than a
year older, he was no taller, and little if any stronger than
his opponent, who, moreover, had had a certain amount of
instruction from his father in the use of his fists. The battle
had lasted for some minutes, and had been waged with the
greatest determination on both sides, and no very severe damage
to either participant, when the door at the end of the room
opened and Mr. Mann, the tall young Scotch mathematical master,
strode into the room. Taking in the position at a glance, he
elbowed his way through the crowd of boys, who were watching the
fight, and seizing the combatants simultaneously, each in one of
his strong large hands, he whirled them apart, and held them out
of reach of one another, though they both strained hard to
resume the fray.

"'You young rascals,' he said, 'why what on earth are you
fighting about, and on the first day of the term too! Now tell
me what on earth it was all about and make it up.'

"'He called me a Frenchman, and I'm not,' said young Leroux, and
the stress of battle over, the poor boy commenced to sob.

"A more generous lad than Jim Kennedy never stepped, and at the
sight of his adversary's distress, his dark eyes filled with
tears, and as Mr. Mann relaxed his grasp on his shoulder, he at
once came forward with outstretched hand to Leroux and said,
'I'll never call you a Frenchy again; shake hands and let us be
friends.' And so the two tearful young Britons, each of whose
faces bore some traces of the recent battle, shook hands and
from that time forth, as long as they were at school together,
became the most devoted of friends.

"This was John Leroux's first introduction to school life. Like
any other healthy vigorous boy, he soon shook off the
despondency of homesickness, and became perfectly happy in his
new surroundings. He worked well and conscientiously at his
lessons, and played hard at all games, and was not only a
general favourite with all his school-fellows, but was also
beloved by all the masters in spite of the fact that his
adventurous disposition was constantly leading him to transgress
all the rules of the school. With young Leroux the love of
nature and the desire for the acquisition of objects of natural
history of all kinds was an inborn and absorbing passion. Before
leaving home he had already commenced to make collections of
birds' eggs and butterflies, and throughout his schooldays his
interest in these and kindred subjects constantly grew. During
the spring and summer months all his time that was not occupied
in lessons or games was spent in birds'-nesting and collecting
butterflies, whilst in the winter he trapped and skinned water
rats and other small animals, and sometimes caught a stoat or a
weasel. He soon became by far the best and most venturesome
climber in the whole school, and there was not a rook's nest in
any one of the fine old elms or oak-trees in which these birds
built in the park in which the schoolhouse stood, from which he
was not able to get the eggs, which for the most part he gave
away to less athletic or adventurous collectors. After he had
been espied on one occasion high up amongst the nests in one of
the tallest elm-trees by the headmaster himself, who was
genuinely alarmed for his safety, all tree-climbing in the park
was forbidden. This rule was, of course, constantly broken, and
by no one more frequently than by Leroux. However, as it takes
some time to climb to a rook's nest, and as a boy is a
conspicuous object amongst the topmost branches of a tree in the
early spring before the leaves are out, our young friend was
constantly being detected either by one of the undermasters or
one of the men working in the grounds, who had all had strict
orders to be on the watch. It was owing to this persecution, as
he considered it, that Leroux conceived the idea of taking the
rooks' eggs he wanted at night, and with the help of Kennedy
and another kindred spirit he made several raids on the rookery
with perfect success when all the masters were in bed. The
dormitories were on the first story and therefore not very high
above the ground, and as the walls of the house were covered
with ivy, it was not very difficult for an active boy to get out
of the window and down or up the ivy-covered wall, with the help
of the rope which Leroux brought from home in his portmanteau
after one Christmas holiday. Having allowed sufficient time to
pass after Mons. Delmar, the French master, had made his nightly
rounds to see that all the boys were snug in bed, and all lights
out, Leroux and Kennedy, who were in the same dormitory, and who
had both apparently been fast asleep when the French master
passed through the room, suddenly woke up and producing a candle
and a box of matches from beneath their respective pillows,
kindled a light and hastily made their preparations. The window
having been softly opened, one end of the rope was fastened to
one of the legs of the nearest bed, whilst the free end was
lowered down the wall to the ground. This having been
accomplished the candle was blown out, and then Leroux and
Kennedy climbed down the ivy with the help of the rope. Although
all the boys in the dormitory took the greatest interest in
these proceedings and were ready to render any assistance
necessary, a boy named Barnett always hauled up the rope as soon
as the adventurers were on the ground, and hid it under the bed
near the window in case of accidents until their return, for
which he kept a sharp look-out. Once on the ground Leroux and
his companion made their way to one or other of several large
oak-trees in the park in which there were a number of rooks'
nests; for these oaks were not only not as lofty as the elms,
but were, moreover, much easier to climb. Kennedy, though a
fairly good climber, was not the equal of Leroux in this
respect, and after assisting the latter to reach the lowest
branches, he always waited for his return at the foot of the
tree. When the rooks were thus rudely disturbed at night, they
always made what seemed to the two boys a most appalling noise,
but if anyone ever heard it he never guessed the true cause, or
took any steps to investigate its meaning, and although during
three successive years the two boys raided the rookery on
several different occasions, their escapades were never
discovered or even suspected. Once, however, they only just got
back into their dormitory before the policeman made his nightly
round. As a rule he did not make his circuit of the house
flashing his lantern on all the windows until after midnight,
but on the occasion in question he came much earlier than usual,
and Leroux and Kennedy had only just scrambled up the
ivy-covered wall, and reached their room with the assistance of
the rope which the watchful Barnett had let down for them, when
they saw the policeman's lantern flash round the end of the
house, through their still open window, which they then closed
very cautiously without making any noise. It was the policeman's
nightly round of the house, which was thus so forcibly brought
to his notice, that gave Leroux an idea, which he and Kennedy
and Barnett, together with some other boys, subsequently acted
upon with great success. This was nothing more nor less than to
play a practical joke on the policeman by hanging a dummy figure
out of the window one night, on which he would be sure to flash
his lantern when he made his round of the house. In each
dormitory there was a huge clothes-basket, not very high but
very capacious, and choosing an evening when their basket was
very full of clothes for the wash, Leroux and his friends, with
the help of a bolster, a coat, shirt, and pair of trousers, and
some of the contents of the clothes-basket, made a very good
imitation of the figure of a boy. The top end of the bolster
which was pinched in a little lower down by the shirt collar,
made a nice round ball for the head, and on this a mask and a
tow wig, which had been bought just before Guy Fawkes day, were
fixed. Then the rope which had done such good service on the
occasions of the raids on the rookery, was fastened round the
dummy figure's neck, and the really meritorious imitation of a
dead boy lowered out of the window and allowed to dangle some
six feet beneath it. The head, which with its mask and wig of
tow now hung over to one side, gave the somewhat podgy and
certainly very inanimate looking figure quite a realistic
appearance. The work of preparing this figure after the French
master had been round the dormitories, occupied the boys some
time, and when at last, after the rope had been fastened round
its neck, it was lowered out of the window, it was past eleven
o'clock. The boys then took it in turns to watch for the coming
of the policeman, each watcher kneeling at the window well
wrapped in his bedclothes. It was Barnett who was on duty when
at last the policeman came. 'Cavy,' he whispered, 'here he
comes,' and all the boys, whose excitement had kept them awake,
made their way to the window, across which the light of the
lantern soon flashed. The result was immediate and exceeded the
utmost expectations of Leroux and his companions. The
policeman--a young man but lately enrolled in the force--was
seen to be gesticulating and shouting at the top of his voice,
evidently trying to attract the attention of those in the room
above him, from which the boy figure, with its ghastly pale
cardboard face, hung dangling at the end of a rope. There was,
however, no response from the listening boys. Suddenly the
policeman ceased his outcries, and running down the footpath
turned the corner of the house. Immediately after there was a
terrific banging at the front door, accompanied by loud
shouting. 'Quick,' said Leroux, 'up with the window, and let's
get the dummy in.' At the same time Kennedy ran to the further
door of the dormitory and holding it slightly ajar, peered out
on the landing, which overlooked the large hall at the end of
which was the main entrance of the house from whence all the
noise proceeded. And now anxious voices were heard, and lights
appeared from all directions. 'Old Rex'--the headmaster--'has
opened the hall door,' said Kennedy, 'and is talking to the
policeman. My eye,' he continued, 'Old Cockeye's there too,
she's crying out and snuffling like a good 'un.' I grieve to say
that 'Old Cockeye' was the disrespectful nickname which had been
given by the boys to the matron--a most exemplary lady with an
unfortunate squint in the left eye. And now there was a babble
of approaching voices as the party in the hall rapidly ascended
the staircase leading to the dormitories. Kennedy softly closed
the door at which he had been listening, and already Leroux and
Barnett had shut the window after having pulled up the rope with
the dummy figure attached to the end of it, which was hastily
thrust under the nearest bed. 'Mind we're all asleep; we don't
know anything about it,' said Kennedy in a loud whisper as he
jumped into his bed and composed his features into an appearance
of placid innocence, which indeed was the attitude adopted by
all the other boys in the room. Then the dormitory door was
thrown wide open and the headmaster rushed in, candle in hand,
closely followed by the policeman, the matron and two of the
undermasters. At the same time the door of the other end of the
room was flung open, and a strange half-clad figure, with wild
eyes and candle in hand, came forward amongst the sleeping boys
not one of whom, strange to say, showed the slightest sign of
having been in any way disturbed by all the hubbub. 'Mon Dieu,'
said Mons. Delmar, 'qu'est-ce qu'il y a donc?' as he ran to meet
the headmaster. The latter was indeed a pathetic figure as he
stood half-dressed looking round the room with wild eyes, his
long grey hair falling over his shoulders. In his right hand he
held a candlestick, whilst his left was clasped over his
forehead. 'Great God,' he said, 'no--no--impossible,' as if
talking to himself, and then suddenly turning to the policeman,
'Why, officer, you must be mistaken, every boy is here in his
bed.'

"'I seed him, sir; I seed him with my own eyes, indeed I did,'
answered the policeman.

"'Oh, deary, deary, deary me,' wailed the matron, whose
unfortunate obliquity of vision had gained her so irreverent a
nickname.

"'Which window was it, officer?' asked the headmaster.

"'The one near the end of the room,' replied the policeman. In
another moment the window in question was thrown wide open and
several heads were protruded into the cold night air.

"'There's nothing here,' said the headmaster.

"'Well, I'm ----' said the policeman, leaving it to his
audience to finish the sentence according to their several
inclinations. At this moment an exclamation from the French
master caused everyone to turn round. In his anxiety to get to
the window, one of the undermasters had pushed the end of
Leroux's bed sharply to one side--without however awakening its
occupant--and exposed to the Frenchman's sharp eyes a portion of
the rope which had been attached to the dummy figure which was
the cause of all the excitement. Stooping down to catch hold of
it, he at once saw the dummy under the bed, and pulled it out
with an exclamation which Leroux afterwards affirmed was
certainly 'sacre.'

"'Well, I'm ----' again said the policeman, without going any
further, and so again leaving his hearers in doubt as to what he
was. Old Rex, the headmaster, then seized Leroux by the
shoulder, and shook him violently, but for some time without any
other effect than to cause him to snore loudly; otherwise he
appeared not only to be fast asleep, but to have sunk into a
kind of comatose condition. At last, however, he could stand the
shaking no longer, and so opened his eyes.

"'Do you know anything about this, Leroux?' said old Rex
sternly.

"'Yes, sir,' said Leroux.

"'It was a cruel hoax,' said the headmaster.

"'I wanted to play a joke on the Bobby,' said Leroux.

"'Well, I'm ----' murmured that functionary, once more
discreetly veiling any further information which might otherwise
have been forthcoming by covering his mouth with his left hand.

"'Officer, these boys have played a shameful trick on you, but
you did your duty. I'm sorry that you should have been disturbed
in this way. Boys, I know you are all awake, I shall inquire
into this matter to-morrow.' So saying, but looking very much
relieved, the headmaster turned on his heel and left the room,
followed by all those who had entered it with him after having
been roused from their sleep by the policeman.

"Now 'old Rex,' the headmaster of the fine school at which our
hero acquired the rudiments of learning, was a reformer and an
idealist, and corporal chastisement was never inflicted on the
boys on any consideration whatever. The punishments for minor
offences were various tasks during play hours, or compulsory
walks conducted by old Rex himself, and which most of the boys
rather enjoyed. For more serious misdemeanours the offending
scholars were separated from their fellows, and placed in
solitary confinement in a distant part of the house for periods
ranging from a day to a week, during which they got nothing to
eat or drink but dry bread with a mere trace of butter on it,
and weak tea. As a sequel to the great dummy joke, the fame of
which by some means was spread through all the neighbouring
parishes, Leroux and Kennedy, who acknowledged that they were
the ringleaders in the matter, were condemned to three days'
solitary confinement, to be followed by various tasks and
compulsory walks during the play hours of the following week,
whilst the rest of the boys in the dormitory got off with some
extra lessons to be learnt whilst their school-fellows were
enjoying themselves in the playground during the next two
half-holidays, and a long lecture on the heinousness of the
crime, to which old Rex said with perfect truth he believed they
had been willing accessories.

"After the perpetration of the dummy joke, however, the French
master, whether on his own initiative or at the instigation of
the headmaster, commenced to make himself a great nuisance, not
only coming round the dormitories with a lighted candle as usual
soon after the boys had gone to bed, but often returning later
on without a candle and wearing carpet slippers. The single
combats and inter-dormitory bolster-fights which were a feature
of the school-life were constantly being interfered with. The
door of the dormitory in which our hero slept had always to be
kept ajar and a boy placed there to watch for the coming of
Mons. Delmar when any fun was going on, and the suddenness with
which at the single word 'cavy,' the confused noise of an
animated bolster-fight was succeeded by the most deathlike
stillness was truly astonishing. Before Mons. Delmar could
strike a light, every boy was not only in bed, but sleeping so
soundly that nothing the puzzled French master could say or do
could arouse them to consciousness. Various plans were discussed
by the most enterprising boys in the different dormitories, with
a view to discouraging these informal visits after the lights
had been put out. One night a piece of cord was tied by Leroux
across the gangway at about a foot from the ground between the
two beds nearest the door of the room in which he slept, over
which it was hoped Mons. Delmar would trip on entering. On this
occasion, however, he did not enter the room at all, but after
opening the door, lighted the candle he held in his hand and
merely looked round, turning on his heels again without speaking
a word. It was hoped that he had not noticed the string, and
another opportunity might be given him of falling over it. On
the next night, however, the boys in the adjoining dormitory set
a trap for him by placing the large inverted clothes-basket over
the half open door of the room, in such a way that it would,
with reasonable good luck, be very likely to fall like an
extinguisher over the head and shoulders of anyone entering the
dormitory, and when Mons. Delmar presently pushed the door open,
down came the large wicker basket. As it was dark it was
impossible to determine exactly whether it came down over his
head and shoulders or only fell on his head, but his candlestick
was certainly knocked out of his hand and he swore most volubly
in his own language. After having found and lighted his candle
he first harangued his young tormentors, all of whom were
apparently overcome by a deathlike sleep, and then went straight
off to the headmaster's study. The result of his complaint was
the infliction of certain tasks and compulsory walks on all the
occupants of the offending dormitory, but after this there was
no further spying on the boys. Poor Mons. Delmar! no doubt he
had only been acting under instructions, though perhaps he
entered on his detective duties a little too zealously.

"Altogether John Leroux spent four very happy years at his first
school, and besides making good progress with his lessons,
showed great aptitude for all games and athletic exercises,
especially football and swimming. Ever since the fight on the
evening of the day of his first entrance to the school he and
Kennedy had been the closest of friends. The two boys had paid
several visits to one another's homes during the holidays, and
it was chiefly because Kennedy's parents had decided to send
their son to a great public school in the Midlands, for the
entrance examination for which he had been undergoing a special
preparation, that it was finally decided that Leroux should be
sent to the same seat of learning. Up till then, however,
Leroux, though well advanced for his age in all other subjects,
had been spared the study of Greek, at the particular request of
his father, who as a practical business man, looked upon the
time spent by a schoolboy in acquiring a very imperfect
knowledge of any dead language, save Latin, as entirely wasted.
But to pass the entrance examination for any of our great public
schools fifty years ago some knowledge of Greek was absolutely
necessary, and so when Kennedy at the age of fourteen, passed
into the great school, his friend Leroux who hoped to rejoin him
there as soon as he had reached the same age, was in the
meantime sent to the establishment of a clergyman living in a
remote village in Northamptonshire to be specially coached in
Greek.

"The Rev. Charles Darnell, Rector of the parish of Belton, was a
short stout elderly man of a very easy-going disposition, who
exercised but little supervision over the dozen pupils he was
able to find accommodation for in his rambling old Rectory. But
he employed a couple of good tutors well up to their work, and
his son, who was a curate in a neighbouring parish and just as
irascible as his father was placid in temperament, also helped
to coach the boys in his charge.

"At the time of our story Belton was a small village of
stonebuilt cottages, all the windows in which were of the old
diamond-paned pattern. The village was dominated by an ancient
and picturesque church, surrounded by yew-trees, amongst which
were scattered the moss-grown tombstones of many generations of
Beltonians. A feature of the churchyard was the family vault of
a large landowner in the neighbourhood. The present
representative of this ancient family, locally known as 'old
squire,' was an eccentric bachelor, who lived in a picturesque
old Manor House with only two or three servants. It was said in
the village that he had never been seen outside the boundaries
of his estate for many years, and that he seldom walked abroad
even in his own grounds till after dark.

"It was during his first term, in very early spring, that
Leroux, accompanied by a fellow-pupil, took a wood-owl's eggs
from a hollow ash-tree in the deserted park, and he subsequently
spent many of his half-holidays birds'-nesting all over the
neglected estate. He never met a keeper, nor, indeed, anyone
else to question his right to be there, not even in the empty
stables or in the thick shrubberies and weed-grown plots of
ground near the great house which had once been gardens. There
were two small lakes in the park, and in one of them during the
autumn and winter months Leroux and one or two of his more
adventurous fellow-students used to set 'trimmers,' on which
they caught a good many pike, some of quite a good size, and now
and again they shot a moorhen with a saloon pistol which
belonged to a boy named Short.

"Whatever the boys caught or shot was taken to a certain cottage
in the village, the residence of an old woman who was a very
clever cook, and at this cottage Leroux and his friends enjoyed
many a good meal of baked pike stuffed with the orthodox
'pudding,' and even found the moorhens, which the old woman
skinned before cooking, very palatable.

"Belton being in the centre of a noted hunting-country, the
hounds sometimes passed in full cry within sight of the Rectory,
and whenever this happened the Rector's pupils were allowed by
an old-established custom, even if they were in the middle of a
lesson, to throw down their books and join in the run.

"During the year he spent at the Rectory Leroux worked hard at
his lessons, and made good progress in Greek as well as in all
other subjects which he had to get up, in view of the
approaching entrance examination to the great Midland school.
Games were neglected at this period, as there were not enough
pupils at the Rectory to make up two sides either at football or
cricket, but for Leroux and his fellow-pupils of similar tastes,
the old squire's deserted estate formed a most glorious
playground in which they found a fine field for the exercise and
development of the primitive instincts which had come down to
them from their distant ancestors of palaeolithic times. The
only pranks that Leroux indulged in during his year at Belton
were all connected with the old church of which Mr. Darnell was
the incumbent, and at which his pupils were obliged to attend
the two services held every Sunday. As in many of the old
churches in the remote districts of Northamptonshire at that
time, there was no organ, but the hymns were sung to an
accompaniment of flute, violin and 'cello, the performers on
these instruments being seated in a kind of minstrels' gallery
at the end of the church facing the pulpit.

"After the service on Sunday evening the musical instruments
were taken by the musicians to their own homes, but one Sunday
afternoon Leroux and Short--the owner of the saloon
pistol--surreptitiously entered the church and thoroughly soaped
the bows of the violin- and violoncello-players, and introduced
several peas into the flute. That evening the music was very
defective, but although the musicians knew that their
instruments had been tampered with there is no reason to believe
that they ever suspected that any of the Rector's 'young
gentlemen' had had anything to do with the trick which had been
played upon them. In future, however, the bows and the flute
were removed between the services, as Leroux discovered about a
month later, when he thought it was time to repeat his first
successful experiment. An aged parishioner, who was always
dressed in a smock-frock and grey woollen stockings, had his
seat on a bench just in front of the pews where Mr. Darnell's
pupils sat. This old man invariably removed his shoes on sitting
down, and placed them carefully under his seat, and on several
occasions during the sermon, Leroux managed to remove them with
the help of a stick to the end of which a piece of wire in the
shape of a hook had been attached. Once the shoes had been
drawn to Leroux's seat they were passed down by the other boys
from pew to pew, and finally left at a considerable distance
from their original place of deposition. The old fellow always
made a great fuss about the removal of his shoes, which not only
amused the Rector's pupils and all the younger members of the
congregation, but must also have had an exhilarating influence
on the spirits of their elders, upon whom the effect of the
usual dull sermon always appeared to be very sedative to say the
least of it. However, no public complaint was ever made, and
when the old man at length took the precaution to keep his shoes
on his feet during service, all temptation to meddle with them
was removed."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The body was sent home in a cask of brandy which was said to have been partially drunk by the sailors. This gruesome theft was known as "tapping the admiral."

[2] The occasion of this speech was when the society of St. Hubert presented Selous with the medal of the "Academie des Sports," "pour services rendus a la Chasse aux grandes fauves" on July 15th, 1911.